


Tigers Make Good Pets

by tenderly_wicked



Series: Survivors [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Asexual!Sherlock, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Torture, dark!Sherlock, masochist!Seb, unnegotiated BDSM
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-23
Updated: 2015-03-23
Packaged: 2018-03-19 07:29:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3601530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tenderly_wicked/pseuds/tenderly_wicked
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is lost without his blogger, Seb Moran is lost without his master. They both are in pain—and crave more.</p><p>It’s a sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/2667278?view_adult=true">Just Staying</a>, but it could be read as a stand-alone piece too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tigers Make Good Pets

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta primalmusic!

“How are you, Colonel?” Sherlock wonders in a pleasant, conversational tone.

 _You bastard, I’m as much a colonel as your John is a captain,_ Seb should snap, but he can’t be arsed to form a coherent phrase right now. Instead, he chokes on a groan as Sherlock’s indelicate fingers trail along an inflamed welt on his hip, first lightly, then pressing harder and harder.

The _ex_ in _ex-military_ still hurts, but not more than this.

“Hm,” Sherlock says ambiguously, a soft huff of breath too close to Sebastian’s neck. There’s disappointment in his voice, but also curiosity: if such a trifle is enough to elicit a reaction out of you, Colonel, what sounds will you make when I do _this_? He digs a nail into the welt, experimentally; Seb can’t help a shudder but stays silent this time. 

He’s naked, but he’s too used to communal showers to be shy and in so much pain that he’s long past caring about minor details; his body is just a field for experiments in different kinds of unpleasant sensations. His hands are secured taut above his head, tethered to a pull-up bar mounted in the doorframe so that he has to slightly raise himself on the balls of his feet now and then to give his arms a rest. As Seb knows from experience, it’s much better than being tied up in strappado; he has painful memories of his arms being wrenched up behind his back almost to the point of dislocation. No matter how hard he tugs, the ropes will hold though; he’s checked. He’d only injure his wrists by struggling, so he forces himself to hold still again despite the urge to squirm and try to escape the sharp jolts of pain as Sherlock continues to inspect the damage he’s caused.

“Yes,” Sherlock purrs approvingly, scraping another raw spot on Seb’s flank. “Stand to attention, Colonel.”

It had been a heavy leather belt first. Then Sherlock had paused, flushed and disheveled, the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and his collar unbuttoned. A click of a lighter. A puff of smoke Sherlock had exhaled in his face. There’d been almost childish curiosity in Sherlock’s eyes when he’d pressed the burning end of a cigarette to the inner side of Seb’s upper arm, watching for his reaction. Then ice from the freezer had come into play too. It isn’t widely considered to be a torture device, but pressed to fresh burns, it feels like it. After that, Sherlock had dug out some kind of coiled wire from among Seb’s possessions, thin enough to break skin and draw blood if the blows were hard enough. And hard they had been.

Quite a busy evening.

Seb knows his limits. He’s certainly far from fainting or begging for mercy, but he’s close to giving in to temptation and sagging in his bonds, exhausted by standing in an uncomfortable position, and that would be _very_ bad for his hands.

He dimly wonders how stupid one has to be to get involved in something this reckless. He also considers asking Sherlock to stop, but that’s laughable; of course he won’t.

“Little sense of self-preservation doesn’t usually have good consequences,” Sherlock tells him in a mentor voice. “But I believe I am correct, Colonel, in saying that there’s more to it than a simple death wish.”

Seb’s knees almost buckle when Sherlock runs an index finger along the tendons standing out on the side of his neck, and then starts slowly drawing a line down his spine, lower and lower. It’s not painful now. It just makes Seb remember that whatever Sherlock chooses to do to him, he’s in no position to argue. That should alarm him, but he’s too tired to care. When Sherlock’s hand pauses below the small of his back, close to his tailbone, maybe he goes just a little bit more tense but that’s it. Whatever follows must be a part of the deal.

To his faint surprise, Sherlock’s hand skims up again, higher, higher, to trace an old scar that curves on his shoulder blade, now crisscrossed with new burning lines. Sherlock pinches it, tentatively.

“Whatever they wanted from you, Moran, I’m sure they were very, very disappointed.”

Seb would have been smug about it because yes, he’d kept silent save for a few relevant, internationally acknowledged curses, but the aftermath had turned out to be unexpectedly bitter. His interrogators hadn’t been inventive, otherwise they would have paid more attention to his hands and eyes, the most valuable body parts for a sniper. But no, it had been nothing fancy, mostly pummeling and waterboarding, and some other disagreeable but hardly creative things too; it had made his fellow soldiers, the ones he’d tried to keep safe, look at him differently afterwards, with uncomfortable confusion, as if some torments degrade and damage you more than others, and irretrievably.

Enduring pain makes you a hero. Enduring some particular forms of torture makes you a victim. He still can’t grasp why. You’re a survivor in both cases.

Not that it had changed him for the worse, the realisation that his loyalty didn’t matter much. He’d probably been not quite right in the head long before that. But lack of gratitude on the part of his comrades and superiors had certainly been a disappointment.

Jim, at least, had appreciated when somebody suffered for him. Moreover, he’d enjoyed it a lot.

“You know,” Sherlock carries on, the softness of his voice a contrast to the way he continues, with detached, mechanical cruelness, pinching and probing at the most sore patches on Seb’s shoulders, “there are some trees which grow to a certain height and then suddenly develop some unsightly eccentricity. Sometimes it’s been there all along. Sometimes it takes a lightning strike to form it, or a talented gardener to foster it.”

“Are you talking of me, or of your John Watson?” Seb croaks out, unable to keep his voice steady.

“Both,” Sherlock admits imperturbably. “Up to a certain point you did well, or so it seemed. A brave soldier. Nerves of steel. Now you’re a vassal without a sovereign. How does it feel, being on your own?”

Seb doesn’t answer, his forehead ground into his forearm. It helps to concentrate on not crying out, and not on Sherlock’s words. Sometimes he wishes he believed in hell. Jim would certainly wait for him there. Knowing the little bastard, he would have wormed his way up the demonic hierarchy by the time of Seb’s demise, so that he would meet his former subordinate with a smug grin and a pitchfork in his hand, or whatever torture devices are available in the infernal regions nowadays.

“Have you ever entertained the possibility that he might be still alive?”

The question catches Seb off guard. For one brief, mad moment there’s a sparkle of uncertainty… but no. No, it’s impossible.

“I saw him die. I was there, remember, in the building opposite.”

“Then you probably saw me die too.”

Seb can’t help a choked laugh. “That’s what this is all about. You just want information. If so, you’ll be disappointed… ah!”

This time it’s Sherlock’s turn to chuckle. “You’re wrong. It’s quite pleasant in itself, watching you struggle in your bonds, Colonel. Besides, I know that you wouldn’t utter a word if there were really something to say. Some people are lucky to enjoy undeserved loyalty. Don’t you wish someone were that loyal to _you_?”

Seb is spared having to answer because Sherlock finds a particularly raw spot and finally draws a sharp cry out of him.

Sherlock continues prying though: “But if— _if_ —he returned, what would you do? Would you punch him?”

The thought of it is pretty ridiculous. “Punch him? Oh please. More likely, he would punch _me_ for not believing he was smart enough to fake his death.”

Sherlock finds that funny too.

“You were considered to be the second most dangerous man in London,” he says almost fondly, after a short fit of laughter, his breathing still as uneven as Seb’s. “Moriarty’s pet Tiger. Does Jim’s death make you the first? You don’t look that dangerous _now_.”

“Untie me, and maybe you’ll change your mind.”

“Maybe,” Sherlock agrees peacefully. “That’s why I won’t. Not yet. I’m in no hurry; I’ve got plenty of time to hurt you some more. What would you prefer, Colonel: bruises, cuts, or burns? I’m afraid my supplies are fairly limited, but I’ll think of something.”

And he really does.

It may be preposterous, but Seb is grateful for Sherlock’s out-of-place remarks, and for the pain too. He wants his mind to shut down, to the point where nothing really matters, and if physical ache helps to achieve this stupor, then it’s welcome.

It hurts, yes, it fucking hurts a lot, but at the same time, it doesn’t feel like torture. Torture is about degrading, dehumanizing, disfiguring until there’s nothing left of your former self, yet the way Sherlock watches for his reactions, the way he constantly talks to him in a nonchalant, ironic manner—strangely, it’s almost encouraging. It’s fascination mixed with approval in Sherlock’s voice, and it makes the ex-colonel want to show that he’s capable of withstanding whatever is in store for him.

It takes quite a while, but finally Seb loses track of time and a good deal of his composure. Every exhale now threatens to turn into a groan.

When he’s untied at last, he almost collapses to the floor, unsteady on his feet. His arms are gone numb, and he’s too weak to protest when Sherlock guides him to a simple futon bed by the window and helps him to lie down on his front.

“What a peculiar flat you have,” Sherlock comments. “Conduit street. Prime spot. You clearly don’t spare the money you earn. And yet it’s almost unfurnished, save some basics. You don’t waste your time on settling down. You live for the moment, don’t you, or is it simply short life expectancy?”

“Both,” Seb breathes out into the mattress.

Unexpectedly, Sherlock puts a pillow under his elbow, so that the fresh burns won’t touch anything. “You think you deserve this. Is it guilt, or grief—or also both?”

He stands there waiting for a reply that will never come, then turns to go. Sebastian can hear his footsteps fading and wonders if he’ll have the decency to close the door behind himself. Getting up and checking doesn’t seem worth the effort. Right now, Seb wouldn’t care even if the police were to come and arrest him.

The fun is over. Seb knows that he isn’t damaged too badly. His hands start tingling as blood rushes back, and the injuries, however painful, are not life-threatening. Lucky, isn’t he. A lucky idiot. But he’s spent and empty, and Sherlock’s last gesture—placing a pillow under his burnt arm—has somehow made it worse and left him feeling strangely bereft.

It’s a dull surprise to hear the footsteps again.

Seb gives a growl in his throat. “What do you want? I thought we were done.”

“It would be a shame not to put your excellent first aid kit to use,” Sherlock says as if it’s a perfectly logical explanation. The mattress shifts under his weight.

“Get out,” Seb snarls fiercely. Okay, maybe not as fiercely as he’d intended. To his own ears, he sounds more like exhausted.

Of course Sherlock doesn’t comply. He lightly pats a damp cotton pad along one of the gashes on Seb’s shoulder. It stings, but the touch is surprisingly gentle. Sherlock doesn’t hurry, just like when he’d been inflicting those cuts and abrasions, and Seb slowly unwinds into the rhythm of his brisk, efficient movements.

Again, it hurts but doesn’t feel like torture. Torture is filth and itching wounds, not the smell of antiseptic and a low voice that asks considerately: “Stings a little, yes?”

“Uh-huh.” It’s so much easier to admit that than to continue playing tough.

“Shhh, Tiger. It’s all right, I’ll be finished soon. You did do well. I knew you’d be brave.”

A childish nickname instead of a detached “Colonel” suddenly makes Seb want to cry, like he’s five again, fallen from a bicycle. Veiled by pain, his grown-up life resembles a hazy dream, nothing more.

Sherlock keeps his promise and doesn’t prolong the medical treatment. He brings a mug of water afterwards, and holds it to Seb’s lips while he drinks messily, in large gulps. After that, Sherlock sinks back onto the mattress beside him, fully dressed in contrast to Seb’s naked beaten-up body, but there’s nothing sexual about it, as far as Seb can tell in his strangely dazed state.

“It’s a great temptation to get hurt, isn’t it, because why else someone would take care of you?” Sherlock muses, drawing little circles at Sebastian’s nape, almost absently, like he’s soothing a pet. “And what’s more important, why would you _let_ someone do it, why would you even _want_ it, a strong and brave man as you are, if it’s not about physical damage?”

Seb contemplates making a rude hand gesture, but it’s too much effort. He feels like he’s floating, dissolving, and the man beside him is his only anchor to reality. It hurts in too many places to count, but vaguely so, like he’s high on endorphins. He’s dimly aware of these aches, and also of a hand resting on his neck, right at the pulse point—a hand that could stop his heartbeat in a few seconds… Yet it doesn’t. It’s simply there, almost a comforting presence, so it’s fine. Whatever happens, it’s all fine. Slowly, he slips into the bliss of nothingness, without dreams, without remembering.


End file.
